The Unexpected
by Consulting Whovian of Galifrey
Summary: Johnlock AU. Sherlock Holmes was one of the rudest, nastiest people anyone in Scotland Yard had ever met. Or at least he was until three years ago. Something has changed the great Sherlock Holmes into something resembling human. But what? ((Starts with A Study in Pink. Established Johnlock. M/M John/Sherlock, Greg/Mycroft. Mature.))
1. Chapter 1

**Hello, my pretties. This will be my first multi-chapter on this account! Whoo! As I said in the description, this is established Johnlock AU. For the first two seasons. Like Sherlock, I approve of Mary, but at the same time she needs to go. If she makes any appearance in this story it will be as a friend. As it should be.**

**Disclaimer: Are Sherlock and John canon? Is SuperWhoLock? No? Then I don't own it.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was one of the rudest, nastiest people anyone in Scotland Yard had ever met. Most of them didn't understand why Greg Lestrade let him come to cases. Sure he solved them quickly and without too much mess, but he got on the nerves of every officer there. He was a machine, spitting out insults and making everyone miserable.<p>

But one day, inexplicably, he changed. He was silent and didn't talk to anyone but Greg, and that was in whispers. Even the Inspector was curious about his behavior. From there, things went uphill. Holmes seemed more human. Over the next three years he stopped insulting people as much, an occasional smile would light his face and he was almost pleasant most of the time. Greg seemed to know something about it and would grin and have murmured conversations with the Consulting Detective. The rest of the Yard had no clue what had changed the cold man, but they didn't complain. Some even were starting to like him.

There were of course people like Anderson and Donovan that intentionally tried to rile him up, but Holmes would always shoot them down viciously, making a few others hide their laughter as the two sticks-in-the-mud would be thoroughly embarrassed.

It was the middle of that third year when something new happened. Something no one expected and no one knew what to think of. In the middle of telling Greg about the murder victim laying on the ground in their own blood, Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it out, keeping up his stream of deductions, and read the text. Every eye turned to the young man as he stopped talking in the middle of his sentence, eyes frozen to the screen.

Sherlock had gone pale white and his eyes had grown impossibly wide in terror. Greg furrowed his brow in worry. "Sherlock? What is it?" He moved over to the frozen man and took the phone, reading the text for himself.

"Shit." he spat, gritting his teeth. Pointing at the one in charge of cataloging the crime scene he yelled, "Make sure you get pictures of everything, don't dismiss anything too small. Everyone finish this up, I'll be back in a bit."

He then proceeded to grab Sherlock by the shoulder and steer him out of the building, leaving everyone else in shocked silence.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't at a case for weeks. No one heard from him and Greg would occasionally be found on his phone with a look of worry on his face. When confronted about it, Greg merely told his team, "Something happened to a friend of ours, he's in hospital and Sherlock is with him."

"Since when does the freak have friends?" Donavin sneered.

Several people glared at her and Greg pinned her with a furious look. "I happen to be one of _Sherlock's _friends, Donavin, so butt out."

When they next saw Sherlock, it was about the suicides. He was still pale and slightly distracted, but he went about his normal routine of deducing the victim, this one a woman by the name of Beth Davenport. And then he was gone, having a quiet word with Greg, who nodded at him.

Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson didn't like any of it one bit.

* * *

><p>Finding out where Sherlock lived wasn't that hard. Sneaking into his flat, a week after the last victim was found, was also quite simple, after creeping up the stairs and past the little old lady in 221A. Donovan and Anderson looked around the messy flat. It had large windows, a desk with a laptop, a decrepit couch and two chairs by the fireplace that faced each other, yet were complete opposites, one with wooden legs that was well-worn with red cushions, the other with shining metal legs and black cushions.<p>

"Is that a skull?" Sally asked, nose wrinkled at the object on the mantelpiece. Phillip got closer and made a face of his own. "It's a real human's skull."

Sally moved into the kitchen where the table was cluttered with test tubes and chemicals, a few tea cups spread around the microscope. She turned and started poking around the counters, opening the microwave. She barely stopped herself from shrieking at the jar of eyeballs there. "Bloody hell this man's a psychopath!" She hissed.

Phillip opened the fridge and shuddered at the severed hand on the bottom shelf. "I'll say."

"Come on." Sally said, leaving the tiny kitchen. "Let's check the rooms."

They tried the small hallway, opening the first door. Inside was a small bathroom that looked like it had been freshly cleaned and smelled slightly of bleach. "I bet it's to cover up the smell of blood." Sally sneered, pulling back the shower curtain.

Phillip shrugged and looked down the hallway. "There's one more room and then the upstairs." He whispered. They closed the bathroom door and moved to the last room in the hall.

Now if these two hateful people were more observant to their surroundings they would have noticed the signs that would prevent what happened next, such as the label on the laptop that declared, "_Don't touch, Sherlock!"_, the woolen jumper in the seat of the red chair and the purple button-up shirt on the floor, the note on the fridge that said, "_Keep body parts on the bottom shelf, Sherlock." _or the second toothbrush in the bathroom. If they even paused to listen to something more than their own thoughts and rude accusations, they would have heard the thumps and moans coming from the room they were about to open. Unfortunately for everyone involved, they were not observant. So when they opened the door, there was a shout of shock and Sally really did scream this time.

"Bloody Hell!" a voice yelled.

* * *

><p><strong>Earlier that Day<strong>

John determinedly walked through Russell Square Park, exercising his leg. He'd finally been released from the hospital a few days ago and it was a relief to get some air. He limped past some benches, leaning heavily on his cane and cursing the sniper that shot him.

"John! John Watson!" a voice called. Turning, John was surprised to see a man get up from a bench and hurry toward him with a smile. When the man realised that John couldn't recall him, he said, "Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart's together."

John's eyes lit up as he remembered those simple days back when he was younger. "Yes, sorry, yes, Mike." He said, shaking Mike's proffered hand. "Hello, hi."

Mike grinned and gestured at himself. "Yeah, I know. I got fat!" he laughed.

John tried his hardest to sound convincing. "No."

Mike shook his head. "I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?"

"I got shot." John said, shrugging.

Mike looked embarrassed. "Ah. Sorry 'bout that."

John shrugged again. "I'm living with it."

Mike chewed his lip then smiled. "Hey. Let me buy you something to eat. We'll catch up."

John hesitated just a moment before nodding. "Yeah, alright."

When they had their take-away and coffees, the two sat side by side on a bench in the park. John tries to stay oblivious to Mike's looks of worry he kept shooting at the ex-army doctor, but eventually turns to look at his friend. "Are you still at Bart's, then?"

Mike nodded. "Teaching now. Bright young things, like we used to be. Damn, I hate them!"

They both laughed. After a moment, Mike finally asked what was on his mind. "What about you? Just staying in town 'til you get yourself sorted?"

John shook his head with a smile. "Got myself a nice flat. Plus I'm married now." he held up his hand to show the shinning gold band on his finger.

Mike's eyebrows shot up. "Married? When?"

John smiled happily. "Bit before I left for Afghanistan. Kind of as a promise I'd come back. My second anniversary is coming up soon."

Mike nodded. "Well you have my belated congratulations then."

After a comfortable silence, Mike suddenly turned to him, a smile on his face. "I just remembered there's something you need to see. Come on!" He stood up, tossing his trash in the bin.

John shrugged and followed him, tossing his own garbage. "What is it?" he asked, limping beside him.

Mike grinned. "There's this bloke at Bart's now. Been hanging around for a couple of years, using the labs and experimenting. He has this trick, it's kinda creepy really. I wanna see what he says about you."

John frowned, but curiosity got the better of him, so he followed. When they reached Bart's, Mike led him to the lower levels were the morgue was. Mike showed him into one of the labs and John looked around at all the equipment. "Well, bit different from my day." he said.

The man that he'd overlooked at the table suddenly looked up at his voice and John nearly laughed. Oh, Mike was the one in for a surprise here.

Mike chuckled, looking at the man. "You've no idea!"

John watched as the tall man at the table sat down, a smile tugging at his lips. Curly dark hair flopped into eyes that were constantly changing color as Sherlock smiled back. "John, may I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

Mike stared at Sherlock in surprise. "You two know each other?" he asked.

John laughed. "For about three years, now." he handed his phone over to Sherlock and the man began to rapidly text. As he did, he commented to John, "I see you've been to your psychiatrist. I still think you should fire her. The things she gets wrong." he shook his head.

John chuckled, shaking his head. "Today she told me I should start a blog. Write about my life."

Sherlock made a face. "Boring." he muttered, handing John's phone back as a young woman came in holding a mug of coffee. "Ah, Molly, this is John. John, Molly." he said as Molly handed him the cup. "Thank you."

Molly smiled at Sherlock and John knew in an instant that she had a crush on Sherlock. Poor girl. Mike walked forward. "So, you've been friends for over three years? That's longer than I've known anyone else to be around this madman." He chuckled at Sherlock good-naturedly.

Sherlock smiled back, recognising the tease to be lighthearted. "Yes, well, John helped me on a case and we became the best of friends. Got married a year later."

A glass shattered and the three men turned to see Molly bending over to get a test tube that she'd dropped. "Sorry. Sorry." Sherlock frowned in confusion and John sighed.

"Here, let me help you." The doctor said, bending down to pick up the broken pieces. He could see the poor girl trying to hide her embarrassment, but being married to Sherlock meant he picked up on some of the smallest things now.

"It's fine, I've got it." She muttered, taking the rest of the glass from him and hurrying from the room.

Sherlock watched her go before turning to his husband with confusion. "I believe I've missed something."

John smiled at him. "I'll tell you later. You staying here then, or you wanna come home?"

Mike coughed and nodded. "Right, I need to go do… stuff. Nice seeing you again, John."

When he had left, John moved to Sherlock's side and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "How have you been."

"Worried about you." Sherlock whispered, tilting his head back to gaze up at the man who unlocked his heart.

John grinned and pecked him on the lips. "You're sweet, you know that?"

Sherlock made a face. "Sweet?"

"Yes, sweet." John laughed.

Sherlock hummed. "You want to go home? I believe I'm done here."

John grinned and nodded. "Yeah, then I can start on my blog."

Sherlock groaned, packing his experiment up before grabbing his coat. "Completely ridiculous. What would you even write in a blog?"

John tailed him out of the hospital, his limp less pronounced in the presence of his husband. "I could write about the mad adventures of my mad husband." He smirked.

Sherlock snorted, but reached out to hold John's free hand. They walked in comfortable silence for a while before the Detective said, "About that. Now that you're back I wondered…"

"Yes?" John asked.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I wondered if you'd like to join me on cases. As a professional doctor your help would be invaluable."

John blinked over at Sherlock, his eyes wide. "Me? Why? You're plenty smart enough to do it without me, not to mention my blasted leg would seriously hold me back."

Sherlock stopped, pulling John to the side so they weren't in the way of other pedestrians. "John Watson-Holmes, why on Earth would you think I didn't need you? You have a perspective I don't, and I'd be lost without you." He said, eyes serious and hands gentle. "As for your psychosomatic limp…" a small smirk pulled up cupid's-bow lips. "I plan to rid you of that very soon."

John laughed, leaning his head against Sherlock's chest. Sometimes he could be the biggest git, but these moments are what made John fall even more in love with Sherlock Holmes. Looking up at him, John said, "I'd love to work on cases with you. Now let's get home you git. If you keep talking to me like that we won't make it to the bedroom."

Sherlock's eyes went wide and he gulped, licking his lips as pink crawled up his pale face. John grinned mischievously, loving that after nearly two years of marriage he could still make the great Detective flush.

"Right, yes. Good, very good." Sherlock said, pulling John toward their flat.

As soon as they had locked the door, Sherlock was on him, hands roaming and cataloging, lips caressing every available piece of skin. John growled and began unbuttoning that lovely purple shirt he loved so much. At the moment, though, it had to go. Sherlock's shirt was tossed over by the fireplace and Sherlock was soon chucking John's warm, tan jumper in that general direction too. "Bedroom. Now." John muttered.

"Yes sir." Sherlock smirked. They were kissing and groping as they made their way to the room that they shared, kicking the door closed behind them. Even with his limp, John was still the dominate one in this relationship. He grinned wickedly as he shoved Sherlock down onto the bed, pulling the Detective's trousers and pants down in one go. After disposing of his own clothes, John moved to hover over Sherlock's bare form.

"You're beautiful." he muttered, leaning down to kiss those wonderful lips.

Sherlock smirked. "First sweet, now beautiful. If I weren't madly in love with you, I might be offended by such feminine words."

John raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock, I'm not calling you a woman."

Sherlock leaned up and kissed him forcefully. "I know."

The Doctor hummed into the kiss, sliding his tongue into Sherlock's mouth. He moaned as his husband began warring with him, running his own slick muscle along John's. Sherlock hooked his arms around John's shoulders and pulled him down until they were flush against each other. John hissed as his erection rubbed against Sherlock's. "What are you waiting for, Doctor?" Sherlock gasped, eyelids drooped and pupils wide with lust. He looked absolutely debauched, his lips swollen and small hickeys lining his collar bone.

John shuddered in want and reached over to the bedside table, pulling the lube from the drawer quickly. After untangling himself from Sherlock's arms, the veteran leaned back on his knees so he could look down at the perfect form below him. A blush was evident on the pale man's chest and shoulders as he squirmed under John's gaze. Sherlock was still shy about his body, preferring to cover it up in several layers when they went out.

"_John._" Sherlock moaned, embarrassed by the sharp gaze that seemed to take every secret he had and pull it into the open air. Now he knew how others felt when he deduced them.

John applied lube to his fingers, rubbing it quickly to warm it. With doctor-like precision he pressed two fingers into Sherlock's opening and moved them around until he found that little bundle of nerves that would turn his Consulting Detective into a puddle. "_JOHN!_" Sherlock cried, arching up off the bed, hands grasping at the headboard before his body fell back to the sheets.

John smiled and continued to stretch out his lover, prepping him for something much bigger. When he deemed Sherlock ready, the veteran coated his prick in lube before leaning over the gasping Detective once again.

Sherlock felt John's erection poking at his entrance and moaned, tilting his head back and exposing his long, creamy neck. John took advantage and began kissing and nipping at the new bit of canvas as he slowly slid inside his husband.

Sherlock keened and bucked, trying to get more, and John complied. He pounded into the pale frame below him, relishing the groans and gasps he was pulling from those lips. He loved watching his partner come undone. Sherlock would always start up a mantra of anything he knew, spewing the chemical properties of tea or some other random thing, as though the wall inside his mind had been lowered and information was spilling over.

They were almost to that point, that delicious end, when the door suddenly opened. John's head snapped up and Sherlock froze beneath him, neither moving as they looked at the man and woman standing in their bedroom doorway. The woman screamed and the man slapped a hand over his eyes. Furry built up in John and he yelled, "Bloody Hell!"

* * *

><p><strong>As you can see, I hate Donovan and Anderson. Anderson isn't so bad in season three, but Donovan's a bitch. She can be eaten by zombies for all I care.<strong>

**There will be more chapters! Stay tuned and all that.**

**Forever yours,**

**Consulting Whovian of Gallifrey**


	2. Chapter 2

**Yes, I'm back. And so quickly too. I'm on a roll because I've been planning this for quite some time. In my head, not on paper. Not even kidding, I'm one of those people that just sit down and type. Enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Nope, nope, nopety nope.**

* * *

><p>To say that the couple were angry was an understatement. Not only had their house been broken into, the two idiots had seen them in their most vulnerable moment. John and Sherlock were furious.<p>

It was a testament to their reflexes that Sherlock and John had quickly rolled off the bed to the side where they could not be seen and in seconds were pulling on their pajama trousers. John grabbed his gun, his limp barely there, and pointed it at the two in the doorway and spat, "Move and I'll shoot."

Donovan gaped as a thoroughly debauched looking Sherlock Holmes marched toward them, only wearing thin flannel pajama bottoms, yet looking more terrifying than she'd ever seen him. "What are you doing here?" he hissed, eyes promising the worst of punishments if their answer wasn't to his liking.

But Anderson still had a hand over his eyes and Donovan couldn't speak. With a growl, John jerked his gun toward the living room. "Go on. Out. Sit on the couch." He said, keeping an eye on them the whole time.

Sherlock followed and while the two sat looking shell-shocked on his couch, he rummaged through his suit jacket that he'd hung by the door, pulling out his phone. A quick text to Greg was all that was needed before he moved to stand next to his husband and glare at the intruders.

Anderson and Donovan had enough common sense to be terrified. The man who was apparently the shagging partner of Sherlock Holmes looked like he could tear them apart, eyes sharp and muscles straining against his skin. His left shoulder had a star-burst scar that looked fresh and red, twisting around the flesh gruesomely and adding to his formidable figure. It didn't matter that he was shorter than average, he was terrifying.

Holmes was just as frightening. Donovan had never seen him with so few layers, so hadn't realized how thin he was, but he was just as toned as the man beside him. Tall and formidable, his eyes were slate grey and his face ethereal and pale under his mussed curls, making him look like some sort of vengeful Greek God. Together, they could probably make a death look like an accident.

Sally shuddered and looked at her knees, wondering just what was in store for them. "Sherlock?" a familiar voice called from downstairs.

"Ah, Greg. So good of you to come. As I told you, there's been a break-in." Holmes said, not taking his eyes off the unfortunate officers on his couch. There was the pounding of footsteps as Lestrade ran up the stairs. The Inspector came through the door looking panicked. When he saw the intruders his face fell. For a moment he just took in the scene, his two subordinates sitting like scolded children on the old couch and the two half-naked men glaring daggers at them.

"Dammit." he growled. "What the bloody hell is going on?"

Sherlock was the one to answer, contempt oozing from every word. "Your lackeys thought they'd benefit from snooping around my flat to prove their theories of me being a psychopath and walked in on John and I."

Greg ran a hand over his face, groaning in exasperation. "This is just ridiculous." he muttered. Turning to his officers he glared at them. "Why on Earth would you think Sherlock is a psychopath? Sure he's rough around the edges, but I can guarantee he's never murdered anyone."

"How could you possibly know that?" Sally finally spoke. "He's got eyeballs in the microwave and a hand in the fridge!" she hissed. "Not to mention his bathroom smells like bleach."

It was John that answered her. "The eyeballs are an experiment on how they react to radiation, the hand is on the deterioration of cancer cells after death. As for the bathroom, I cleaned today. Bleach is something you use in tubs you know." he growled.

Anderson glared, his stupidity taking over his fear. "You would stick up for the freak, seeing as you're his whore."

For a second the room went deathly quiet and Anderson realized he should have kept his mouth shut, because the next instant his vision was full of wrathful Consulting Detective. A surprisingly strong hand yanked him up by the shirt and Anderson thought he was going to die right then and there. "Call me whatever petty names you like, but if you ever insult John again I will make your death long and painful." he spat. "No one would ever find your body."

"Oh for Heaven's sake." Greg sighed. "Put him down, Sherlock. I don't fancy having to tell Mycroft he needs to cover up a dead body."

"Then don't. I don't need my brothers help to get rid of scum." Sherlock said, still keeping a wide-eyed Anderson on his toes.

John finally put his gun down and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "That's enough, Sherlock."

Sherlock dropped Anderson back to his seat and backed up. "They're all yours, then, Greg. As much as I'd love to watch you reprimand them, I'd like them out of my flat."

Greg nodded. "Right, you two. With me. _Now_." He said. Anderson and Donovan had no choice but to follow, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

The Inspector nodded to the couple. "John, Sherlock, I'll see you later."

John gave a tight smile. "Bye, Greg. Tell Mycroft I said 'Hi'."

And then the three officers were gone.

* * *

><p>Greg stared over his desk at his trouble making subordinates. "Do you realize how much trouble you are in? How serious this is?"<p>

Sally and Phillip didn't answer.

"You broke into someone's house because of a petty grudge. I'm surprised John didn't shoot you."

Sally spoke up, desperately wanting to prove Holmes was no good. "You heard him threaten Anderson! How can you defend him?"

"If you recall, Anderson called his husband a whore." Greg deadpanned.

There was silence as that sunk in. "_Husband_?" Anderson asked.

Greg nodded. "That is what I said."

"But…" Sally said, "How can you trust him? He's insane! Who experiments on human body parts? Where'd he even get them?"

The older man sighed, closing his eyes and leaning on his hand. When he opened them he pinned them with a serious look. "Sherlock has a friend that works in the morgue of Bart's Hospital. She occasionally supplies him with body parts. Now I'm going to tell you a story, and you're going to listen. When I first met Sherlock Holmes, he was a scrawny teenager, hopped up to high Heaven on drugs. At the time I was dating his older brother, Mycroft Holmes."

Sally opened her mouth to profess her disgust at ever dating a Holmes, but Greg glared at her. "I married Mycroft, but that was years later. I have known Sherlock longer than most so I've watched him grow into who he is now. The Holmes' brothers have always been different, and when people are different they have to deal with people like the two of you their entire lives. That's why when you first met him he was so horrible. He's never dealt with people. It's his natural reaction because he's used to the horrible treatment of people who don't understand. You see why this is a problem? You two are nothing better than bullies. I brought Sherlock to cases because Mycroft and I believed intellectual stimulation would help him with his addictions and keep him away from harm, but you never thought twice about ripping him to shreds just because he can see things you can't. I'm tired of it, and I've told you thousands of times to stop. I really think that if Sherlock had never met John three years ago, he'd have committed suicide, just to end the boredom or whatever runs through that head of his."

Donovan and Anderson looked at their laps, not wanting to meet the eyes of their boss. He was Sherlock's _brother-in law _for Pete's sake and he was telling them that the man they'd sneered at all these years was a lot more human than they'd thought. Greg leaned back in his seat. "I'm having both of you suspended for a month. No pay, no helping on cases. You have illegally searched a man's home and have verbally abused him. I'll be having Human Resources talk to you about proper conduct in the work place. Dismissed."

It was two very numb officers that walked from Lestrade's office.

* * *

><p>Sherlock woke slowly, head rested on John's chest. He could hear the heartbeat of his husband and feel the breath brushing his curls. He only liked sleeping if he got to wake up like this. Muscles pleasantly sore and a warm John to cuddle into. A smirk graced Sherlock's pale face and he tilted his head so that his chin rested on the blonde's collarbone, watching the soft features as his husband slept. After last night's disaster, it had taken a while for them to feel comfortable enough to resume their activities.<p>

Carefully and quietly, the worlds only Consulting Detective slid from the bed, pulling on pants and grabbing his dressing gown. Nearly half an hour later, the smell of breakfast teased John into wakefulness. He hummed and stretched, eyes fluttering open. Noticing the smell and the absence of his lover, the Doctor rolled out of bed, pulling on his pants and limping out to the kitchen.

He paused in the living room to take in the sight of Sherlock bustling around the kitchen, dressing gown fluttering like a cape or wings, hair perfectly mussed, and a fierce look of concentration on his face as he cooked. With a smile, John sneaked up behind his tall Detective and wrapped his arms around the thin waist. Pressing his face to Sherlock's shoulder blade he murmured, "What's the occasion?"

Sherlock turned carefully in his arms and looked down at his sleepy blue eyes. "I'm just glad you're back to stay." he said quietly, running long fingers through blonde hair. "I've missed you so much. Only visiting on holidays doesn't cut it."

John grinned and pecked him on the lips. "What's for breakfast, oh brilliant husband of mine."

Sherlock gave that deep chuckle John loved to hear and turned back to his cooking. "Toast, eggs, bacon and tea." he said. Looking over his shoulder he asked, "Would you mind getting out the jam?"

John nodded and opened the fridge, ignoring the hand on the bottom shelf and pulling out his favorite jam. When Sherlock had finished his cooking, they both grabbed their plates and cups and moved to their armchairs. Sherlock ate in silence, stretching his legs out so that their feet were touching. John giggled into his tea and pulled out the newspaper. After several moments of companionable silence, John noticed something in the paper. "Three suicides, all the same. Scotland Yard working on it. Sounds like your kind of work, Sherlock."

Sherlock glanced up from his phone, empty plate and cup placed on the floor. "Yes, Greg asked me to examine the last body. There was lots of data, but no lead. It's infuriating. This isn't just suicides, I know that. This is a serial killer and he's clever. Very clever."

John smiled fondly at him. "You'll get it. I know you will."

They resumed their silence before John asked, "What do you wanna do today? Look for leads?"

Sherlock paused, looking at John and wondering how on Earth he ever found someone as wonderful and supportive as John Watson. "No…" he said after a moment. "I've found everything I can at the moment. I think I like to spend the day with you. How does a day around London sound? I can try to rid you of that limp while we're at it."

John laughed happily. "A day on the town sounds lovely."

Sherlock jumped to his feet, manic grin spreading over his pale face. "Come along, John." he said, holding out his hand.

* * *

><p>At an entirely different Holmes residence, Greg walked into the kitchen to find his husband holding out a cup of strong coffee, just the way he liked it. "Ta." he muttered, taking a gulp.<p>

"What punishment did you bestow on the idiots who broke into my brother's flat?" Mycroft asked, sipping at his tea. Greg wasn't even surprised that the British Government knew about that. He'd stopped being surprised by the Holmes brothers long ago.

"I suspended them from all work and pay for a month."

Mycroft nodded, eyebrows furrowing in a look Greg immediately recognized. "No." he said sternly.

The elder Holmes blinked at him. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it. No making their lives miserable. I'll need them back when their punishment is over, because despite their stupidity, they do good at their jobs."

Mycroft made a face of disgust. "That's debatable, Greg. I could find much better replacements for them."

Greg shook his head fondly. "My final answer is still no." He placed a gentle kiss on Mycroft's lips and smiled. "Now go rule the world while I solve some murders." He chuckled.

Mycroft sighed dramatically. "Yes, fine. I'll see you tonight for dinner?" And if that wasn't a pleading look of hope in the man's eyes, Greg was the Queen of Sheba.

"Yes, I'll be here. Provided your brother doesn't get himself into more trouble." Mycroft smirked. "I'll double their security."

Greg laughed and started for the door. "John's gonna be pissed at you when he finds out about all those guards and cameras you've got following them around."

"If, Greg, if he finds out." Mycroft corrected, taking another sip of tea.

* * *

><p>After their long adventure through London, John sat on the couch, Sherlock's head in his lap and his computer on his knees. Sherlock was in his mind palace for the moment, hands pressed together under his chin as if in prayer, eyes closed. John was typing away when Sherlock spoke. "You're really going to do that? It's silly. What's the point?"<p>

John grinned down at his husband who was staring at the beginnings of his blog as if it had offended him. "Oh, don't be like that. It'll be fun. Like writing a diary, or a book."

Sherlock pouted up at him. "I still say it's silly."

John leaned down and kissed Sherlock's forehead. "You're silly, but I keep you around." he teased.

Sherlock sighed. "What have you done with it so far?"

John shifted slightly and said, "Not much. Mainly the photo and my background. _My name is John Watson-Holmes. I'm a veteran army Doctor and I'm married to one of the most amazing and insane men in the world._"

Sherlock made a face. "Good Heaven's you really are doing this."

John laughed. "Come on, what do you think?"

There was a sniff before a muffled, "It's adequate."

John grabbed his favorite Union Jack pillow and placed it on Sherlock's face. "Prat." he snickered.

Sherlock shoved the pillow off and sulked. "I just don't see why you need to tell the world about us."

John smiled. "It's supposed to help with stress. Plus… I get to brag about you to the world. Or whoever reads this."

Sherlock simply rolled over so his face was pressed into John's jumper clad stomach. With a quiet laugh, the Army Doctor continued typing.

Mrs. Hudson bustled in at one point, tutting at the state of the living room. "Honestly, boys, you could learn to tidy up a bit."

She started straightening things in the kitchen and John grinned. "I thought you weren't our housekeeper."

"I'm not." she said sternly, pointing her finger at him, before smiling at Sherlock's curled up position. "But I'm glad to see your little domestic from last night is over."

John frowned in confusion. "Domestic?"

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "All that shouting, you telling Sherlock to go to the couch."

John nearly turned red from holding in his laughter and Sherlock lifted his head up to glare indignantly at the woman over his shoulder. "Don't be dull. We had intruders in the house that interrupted our intercourse. John was telling _them_ to go to the couch, at gunpoint, might I add. John and I do not have anything so trivial as a _domestic_." The last word was said as though it were a badly cooked meal that was being spat out.

Mrs. Hudson was not impressed, however. "Whatever you say, dear, but I'll have you know that it's not good to keep everything bottled up." she nodded at them before going back down to her flat.

John's laughter finally exploded out of him, his head falling back as he shook. Sherlock huffily returned to his former spot in his husband's abdomen and muttered darkly, "For a woman who assisted her husband and his gangs trafficking of illegal drugs, she's surprisingly dense about the things that go on around her."

"Don't be rude, Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson is wonderful and you know you love her like your own mother." John scolded lightly, poking the stubborn man in the shoulder.

Sherlock grunted before jerking upright into a sitting position. His eyes were wide and he looked at the door just as Greg entered, looking ruffled. '_He's like the worlds best human-guard dog hybrid.' _John mused.

"There's been a development in the case, hasn't there?" the Consulting Detective asked excitedly. "Something new that none of the others had."

Greg got a strange expression, torn between slight annoyance and relief that he didn't have to explain everything. "You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah." Sherlock said, eyes lighting up.

"This one did. Will you come?" Greg asked, slightly out of breath.

Sherlock gave him a suspicious glance. "Who's on forensics?"

Greg rolled his eyes. "_Not _Anderson. Donovan won't be there either. Both will be off the force for a month. You don't have to worry about it."

"Where is it?" John asked.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." Greg replied. "Will you come, Sherlock?"

Sherlock nodded. "Not in a police car. We'll be right behind."

Greg paused, surprise flitting on his face. "We?"

Sherlock grinned in pride. "John has agreed to accompany me on cases and lend his professional opinion."

The Inspector sighed, shaking his head. "Dragging your limping husband to cases. Wonderful. I'll see you there."

John rolled his eyes at Greg's drama, recognising that their brother-in-law was secretly pleased. John had gotten along with him almost as soon as they had met.

When they silver haired Detective had gone, a grin spread across Sherlock's face, splitting it in half with it's size. "Brilliant!" he cried, jumping from the couch, clenching his fists in triumph before twirling around the room like a dark ballerina. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicide, and now a note! Oh, it's Christmas!" he turned to look at John, eyes sparkling in child like excitement and that genuine smile that was mostly reserved for the Army Doctor.

"Are you ready for your second case, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock asked, grabbing their coats from the rack. John shut his laptop and took his jacket, sliding it on before grabbing his cane. "Ready as ever, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock put his greatcoat on in a dramatic swirl, eccentric like everything he did, hands tying his scarf around his neck with practiced ease. They made their way down the stairs, sidestepping their landlady on the way.

"Well where are the two of you going at a time like this?" She asked, watching Sherlock practically hop in place as he waited for John.

"The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" The Consulting Detective cried, kissing her on both cheeks, John laughing in the background.

Their landlady tutted fondly. "Look at you, all happy. It's not decent. People have been murdered."

"Who cares about decent?" He snorted, opening the door and bounding into the night. He walked to the street and raised his arm. "Taxi!"

Sherlock held the door open for John before getting in himself, telling the driver their destination.

For a while they just sat in silence, side by side, holding hands. After a moment, John realized that Sherlock was observing him, eyes soft, yet holding that mischievous gleam that meant he was planning.

"You're still thinking of how to get rid of my limp, aren't you?" He laughed, leaning on his husband's shoulder. "You're on a case, Sherlock, give it a rest. I can handle this for a few more days."

Sherlock hummed. "I'm quite capable of solving these murders and ridding you of your psychosomatic limp at the same time, John. I'm just waiting for the perfect time. You won't even know it's happened."

"You're so full of yourself." John snorted.

Sherlock grinned and whispered so that the cabbie wouldn't hear. "I'd much rather be full of you."

John turned bright red and smacked his husband. "Sherlock!" he giggled as the Detective's baritone laugh filled the cab.

They reached Lauriston Gardens soon after, stepping out into the cool air, cheeks flushed from their chuckles. "Welcome to your first crime scene, John." Sherlock said.

John grinned. "I should have brought a camera."

Sherlock intertwined their fingers and they walked toward the police tape.

* * *

><p><strong>So, mostly fluff because I needed some happy stuff today. I'm seriously mad and depressed and just so angry! I hate it when people think they can mess with your belongings and ruin them. *sigh* Anyway. I'll see you all next time.<strong>

**Also, I realize Sherlock is a little OOC, but that's because he's had three years of John helping him become a better man, in more ways than he does in the show.**

**Forever yours,**

**Consulting Whovian of Galifrey**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

John followed Sherlock to the tall building surrounded by police tape and officers. Sherlock squeezed his hand and led him under the yellow barrier, nodding at the police man guarding it. John noticed several pairs of eyes following them as they approached the building, but he supposed that seeing the Great Sherlock Holmes holding hands with some strange man would be quite the surprise to some of them.

The army veteran smiled at Greg, who was waiting for them at the door. Their brother in-law just shook his head. "You're really doing this? Are you sure you didn't hit your head in Afghanistan?"

John rolled his eyes and smirked. "I'm quite sure, Greg. I've always wanted to see where Sherlock works."

Greg laughed, leading them into the building. "That's a little hard to do since not all crimes are in the same place. Just seeing London shows where Sherlock works."

Sherlock made a face at the DI and watched as he pulled on blue coveralls to go examine the body. He gently nudged John and whispered, "You'll need to wear one as well."

John shrugged and pulled off his jacket, leaning his cane against the table, and stepping into the blue plastic. "What about you?" he asked his husband, eyebrow raised.

Sherlock gave him a stern look and John rolled his eyes. "Right, whatever was I thinking?"

The Detective grinned at the shorter man and kissed his temple, before turning to Lestrade. "So where are we?"

Greg smirked as he saw several of his officers gaping at the man Sherlock Holmes had just _kissed. _"Upstairs." he said, throwing a pair of latex gloves at his snarky brother in-law. Sherlock scowled and pulled the gloves on as they ascended the stairs. "Alright, Sherlock, you know the rules; Ten minutes, no more. I'm breaking a lot of rules letting you in here, let alone your husband."

Up the circular staircase, almost to the top floor, the three men entered a room that held a pink eyesore. John blinked to make sure his eyes were working right, staring at the body on the ground. Lestrade patted his back in understanding. "Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her."

"Poor kids." John muttered, looking around the room. There was no furniture aside from a rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lights had been set up around Jennifer's body, presumably by the police. There were holes in the walls and the pink woman was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room, hands flat on the floor either side of her head.

Sherlock walked a few steps into the room and then stopped, holding one hand out in front of himself as he studied the corpse. John sighed sadly as he too took in the woman. None of these people deserved this. For a moment he was reminded of others, men and women lying prone in the hot sand with their blood staining the ground black. "Stop it."

John startled at his husbands voice. "What?" he asked in confusion.

"Stop thinking about that." Sherlock said forcefully, his eyes pained and concerned. "You don't need to."

John blinked and a small smile twitched the corners of his lips. "How the bloody hell did you know that?"

"You're expression." Sherlock muttered, turning back to the body. "Now I need to think, everyone stop."

Greg sighed in exasperation and shared a significant look with John. "The curse of being married to a Holmes. Not even your thoughts are private." he smirked.

John just shook his head fondly. "Yeah, but it's nice not to have to say things sometimes."

They watched as Sherlock worked his Holmes' magic, leaning over Jennifer and looking at the "note" scratched into the floorboards by the woman's left hand. "_Rache."_ Sherlock then looked at the hand that had made the message and studied it.

John watched in fascination as Sherlock practically danced around the scene, his belstaff coat spinning around him as he moved from one side of the body to another, gently pressing his thin fingers into the coat or removing the wedding ring on the left hand, taking out his magnifying glass to examine some small detail only he had noticed.

After a while, Sherlock stood, casting one last glance at the woman before smirking. "Got anything?" Greg asked, eyebrows raised.

Nonchalantly, the Consulting Detective shrugged. "Not much." he slid his gloves off and pulled out his mobile, typing away at it.

Greg rolled his eyes. "Right, that means quite a lot for us. What is it?"

John chuckled as Sherlock ignored the hassled DI. Some things never changed. Finally the tall man spoke. "She's from out of town. Intended to stay in London for one night…" He paused as he looked at his phone screen and smiled smugly as he finished. "... before returning home to Cardiff." he pocketed his phone. "So far, so obvious."

John sighed as his husband purposefully tried to rile Greg up. "Mind explaining to us simple people, Sherlock?"

"What about the message?" Greg huffed in irritation.

Sherlock didn't answer him, instead turning to John. "What do you think, Doctor Watson?"

"Of the message?" John frowned.

Sherlock sighed. "Of the body."

John looked over at Greg for permission, receiving the D.I's grudging assent. With a bit of difficulty, the Doctor kneeled down on one knee, leaning heavily on his cane. Sherlock squatted on the other side, watching him intently. "Well?" he whispered, as Greg went out to the hallway to speak to some of his subordinates.

John made a contemplative noise, leaning further over the woman and ignoring his aching leg. "Yeah… Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

Sherlock smiled knowingly at his husband. "You read the papers, John. You know what this is."

John's eyebrows raised. "The suicides? That's what this case is? The fourth?"

Sherlock nodded before turning to Greg who had walked back in. He stood and held out his hand to John, helping the Doctor up. "Victim is in her late thirties. Professional person, going by her clothes; I'm guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" Greg asked, brow furrowed.

John looked around the room but didn't see a suitcase anywhere. "Suitcase, yes. She's been married at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.

Lestrade sighed. "And you know this how?"

Sherlock pointed at the woman's left hand. "Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It's not for work; look at her nails. She doesn't work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she'd never sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple."

John grinned. "That's brilliant."

Sherlock smirked. Greg rolled his eyes. "Cardiff?" he asked, trying to stop the obvious eye sex going on next to him.

"Her coat: it's slightly damp. She's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can't have travelled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?" He pulled out his phone and triumphantly showed it to the other men in the room. They saw a webpage displaying today's weather for the southern part of Britain. "Cardiff."

"Fantastic!" John laughed.

"You do know you're doing that out loud." Greg groaned, putting his hand over his eyes. "If you're coming to crime scenes, no flirting. His head is big enough as it is."

Sherlock chuckled at his brother-in-law's discomfort. "Consider it payback for all the times I had to listen to you and Mycroft."

The Inspector glared at the tall man and gritted out, "Why d'you keep saying suitcase?"

Sherlock blinked and spun in a circle to look around the room. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organiser. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" John asked.

"Yes, it's the only word it can be. Obviously she wasn't finished, she died before she could scratch out the last letter. That leads to the question of why did she wait until she was dying to write it?"

"How do you know she had a suitcase?" Greg huffed, tired of being ignored.

"Mud splatters." John said. Both men looked at him and he blushed. "The back of her leg has tiny spots of mud on it. Most likely from the wheels of her suitcase." he gestured vaguely at her right leg.

Sherlock grinned so wide that John thought his face might split. "Excellent, John. Yes, there are splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging it behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night."

He swooped over to John and kissed him right on the mouth. "Told you you're absolutely brilliant." he smirked.

"Sherlock, there was no case." Greg said, interrupting their little moment.

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes. "Say that again."

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase."

The Consulting Detective immediately rushed out the door, leaving John looking dazed and Greg irritated. "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" he yelled down the stairwell, startling several police officers.

"Sherlock!" Greg cried, frustrated with his brother-in-law. "There's no case here. Maybe she left it at her hotel!"

John shrugged and moved down the stairs as fast as his leg would allow, coming up next to his husband who had turned to call back up to Lestrade. "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them."

Greg rolled his eyes, watching the two continue down the stairs. "_And…_"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." he held his hands up in front of his face and John bit his lip to hide his smile at the man's obvious delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

"Why do you think that?" Lestrade asked, confused.

Sherlock stopped again and looked up at him. "Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?" John laughed and Sherlock grinned at him, grabbing his hand. "Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car."

John raised an eyebrow. "What if Greg's right? What if she left it at the hotel?"

"No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking …"

He froze, his eyes widening. "Oh." His face lit up and he grabbed John's shoulders. "Oh!" he clapped his hands in delight.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

"What is it, what?" Greg asked, leaning over the railings. Several police officers glanced at the Consultant, waiting to hear what he had to say.

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Greg cried.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock yelled, grabbing John's hand and rushing down the stairs. "Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!"

He and John reached the bottom of the stairs and dashed out of Greg's sight. "Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!"

His in-law ran back into the room and grinned up at him like a child at Christmas. "PINK!"

Greg sighed and leaned his head on his hand, resting his elbow on the banister and watching the mad pair dash off. After a moment he shook his head and stood up. "Alright, you heard the man. Find out who Rachel is." He was going back into the room when he stopped, realizing something. Looking back at where Sherlock and John had disappeared, he grinned. "You mad genius." he murmured, wondering just when John would realize he had dropped his cane in the foyer.

(line break)

John turned to Sherlock as they stopped at a bin, grinning and out of breath. "Pink?"

Sherlock grinned back and grabbed the edge of the bin, hefting himself into it and leaning back down to help John. When They were both in the bin, Sherlock started digging. "What's the first impression you had of Jennifer Wilson, John?"

John blinked, helping his husband dig through the trash. "That she was dead."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Besides that, John."

The Doctor chuckled. "I thought 'Wow that's a lot of pink'."

"Precisely." Sherlock said, tossing a bag behind him. "Everything she wore was pink, from her lipstick to her shoes. Therefore…"

"Her suitcase is pink." John breathed, eyes widening in realization. "And if it got left in the murder's cab-"

"Cab?" Sherlock asked, looking up in confusion.

John blinked. "Yeah, you said the murderer must have driven her. Wouldn't they be in a cab if she was just visiting?"

Sherlock's jaw dropped staring at the blonde man in shock. "John." he said lowly, eyes bright.

John blushed, confused by his husband's staring. "What?"

Sherlock surged forward and pinned John against the side of the bin, kissing him fervishly. "You are absolutely amazing." he whispered against his partners lips, running his hands down John's chest and gripping his hips. "Wonderful."

John gasped as Sherlock's lips moved down to his throat and he groaned. "Sherlock." He shoved gently at the Detective's shoulders. "Sherlock, I'm not having a shag with you in a skip."

Sherlock chuckled, leaning back and staring down at the veteran with lust filled eyes. "Later." He muttered, pressing one last kiss to John's mouth.

When they had straightened themselves out, John cleared his throat and asked, "What did I say that got you all excited, anyway?"

Sherlock continued digging through the bin, a smirk permanently on his face. "All of the victims were found in out of the way locations. Places that no one would interfere for several hours. Our murderer knows his way around London. Yet none of the victims were connected. They'd never met, they were all different ages and genders and occupations. There's no link, _except _that they were out in public when they were last seen. Now who do you trust in a crowded London street when you've never met them? Someone that is always there but you never see them?"

John frowned, looking up. "Cabbies. You think the murderer is a cabbie?"

Sherlock grinned up at John. "Not till you mentioned a cab, but it makes sense. No murderer would try to kidnap someone in a cab. The cabbie would be a witness. Jennifer obviously went willingly, but she was on business. No relatives or friends she was visiting that would have given her a ride."

The Army Doctor grinned. "So we have a cabbie serial killer on our hands. This must be a dream for you."

The Consultant laughed. "Finally the criminals are being interesting."

It took an hour of searching, but they finally found the suitcase in another skip under some black plastic. "Ah hah!" Sherlock yelled, jumping out with it, checking the label. "Jennifer Wilson! Our cabbie wanted to get rid of this as fast as possible, so he dumped it."

"He?" John asked, jumping out to stand next to his husband.

"Statistically more likely." Sherlock murmured, opening the case on the ground and rifling through it. "Phone, phone, where is her phone?" he hissed, shoving a novel to the side.

"It's not here." John shrugged, opening a pocket to help look. "Do you think the murderer has it?"

Sherlock placed his hands under his chin in the prayer position, rocking on the balls of his feet. "Very likely. It wasn't on her body, so it must have fallen into the car. Or…" he murmured eyes lighting up. "Maybe she planted it."

He grabbed the tag again and held it out to John. "Let's text it, shall we?"

John bit his lip. "Are you sure that's a good idea, Sherlock?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "It's risky, but it's the only way. This could be our one lead, John."

The shorter man nodded, pulling out his phone. "Let's use mine. You're could be recognised from your webpage."

Sherlock nodded, leaning over to John. "These words exactly. _What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come_"

John nodded, quickly typing out the message and sending it. "Alright." A small giggle escaped him. "I just texted a murderer."

Sherlock smirked. "Yes you did. Dinner?"

Blue eyes glanced into swirling gold and green. "Famished."

The two packed up the suitcase and made their way out of the alley. "We'll have to drop this off at Scotland Yard first." Sherlock said, looking over at John. "I'd prefer not to have another false 'Drugs Bust' for withholding evidence."

John laughed. "Good thing you're clean then."

Sherlock glanced over. "Yes, I found something much more addicting."

The smaller man looked at him in shock, only to find his dark-haired husband smirking knowingly. After a beat of silence John said, "It's weird, because you make the strangest pick-up lines at me but it's ridiculously charming."

Sherlock laughed, tugging John into the New Scotland Yard building, and leading him to Greg's office. The grey haired Inspector looked up in surprise and started as Sherlock dumped the case on his desk. "Bloody hell, where'd you find that?" He asked, looking at the name tag on the handle.

"A skip about a block away. Her phone's not in there, so we assume the murderer has it." Sherlock said. "This is turning out very interesting. Now if you'll excuse us, we have a dinner appointment."

Greg jumped out of his seat. "Hold on! John, you dropped this." He handed over John's cane and the Doctor took it with a look of surprise and wonder.

Sherlock smiled proudly at his husband. "Told you."

John laughed, looking at his leg and bouncing slightly as if to test it. "Yeah." he looked at Greg with a grin. "Thanks." he let out a giddy laugh as he pulled Sherlock into a hug. "Thank you."

"Any time, John." Sherlock whispered. With a quick clearing of his throat he waved at Greg. "As I said, dinner date. Can't be late for it. Bye."

Greg laughed, flopping back into his chair. '_Those two.' _He thought fondly, reaching for the case.


End file.
